This is mild Omegaverse AU - if you haven't read any Omegaverse before don't worry too much, it will clear itself up as you go along. If you have, this is Alpha!John and Omega!Sherlock Johnlock slash, smut and all the good stuff. It will be definitely adult content in later chapters (but not just yet). This chapter also contains a trigger warning for detailed descriptions of PTSD. That's it for preamble - on with the show!

Captain J. H. Watson (Retired)

Captain John Hamish Watson. Retired.

Leader of the best medical evac team in the Middle East. Discharged.

Alpha male. Broken.

Summary of my life: shit.

I remember the exact moment I changed from being a doctor into being a patient. We were on what was supposed to be a routine retrieval mission for an injured soldier. I was directing the transfer of the patient into the truck when it turned into an ambush. I urged my team to expedite our evacuation. We were almost all loaded when I took an Afghani bullet in the back of my left shoulder and felt the scapula shatter. I half-fell into the back of the Jeep and someone dragged me the rest of the way. My orderly closed the back door and we were away. The pain in my shoulder made me pass out before we got back to the hospital.

Of course, at the time I didn't realize this would be the end of my army career. I thought it would be a matter of extracting the bullet, six weeks in a sling (four if I wrote my own treatment plan) and back to the front lines. But the problem with hospitals is that they are full of sick people. I was just recovering from the surgery to remove the bullet when I came down with a nasty case of typhoid fever. I was more than two months recovering with intermittent fevers, and eventually it settled into my bones, leaving me with a chronically painful left shoulder and wrist, and a limp from the destruction of the cartilage in my right hip. Even now I think it hasn't completely gone, and sometimes I still wake in the night with sweats and fever.

I can still picture in my mind the office where I was given my final dismissal. The temperature of the day was warm and muggy, which is something I still can't stand. I was watching the doctor's lips as they moved in a motion which looked like "medical discharge" even though my ears and brain were sure they heard "return to duty". I coughed and had to ask him to repeat himself, and this time my horrified eyes and ears both reported the same impossible conclusion.

Despite my protests that I could still treat patients, care for and lead my team, that my experience was needed, that I wanted to stay and could have stayed in Afghanistan – I was invalided home to London. Home, where I could hang around in bars spending my army pension and avoiding my sister, and knowing that my regiment was even then in danger without me. I don't know what was worse; knowing that they were going into danger without a competent medic, or the thought that I could so easily be replaced with my friends by any other doctor. Perhaps my psychiatrist thought that to send me back to Afghanistan would allow me to complete my suicide more quickly than my current slow death-by-alcohol plan. I had occasionally thought that my gun would be quicker than the alcohol, but I was in no rush to go anywhere, and the path of least resistance was to continue my routine and wait for whatever was going to happen to direct my path next.

My career was over. My life was over. Who would want a broken Alpha, with the all the instincts to provide and protect, but with no money, no job and lame?

I had met up with a few friends on returning to London. No close friends, but old acquaintances from medical school or family friends who were proud to claim themselves as support people to a decorated war veteran. They were always dismayed when they actually saw me; I used a cane for my limp, and still had a tremor in my left hand which would occasionally make me drop or spill things. I always felt the absurd need to apologize for my state, apologize for upsetting them with my troubles and to shield them from the reality of how broken I really was. Their dismay and concern was like a blanket over me; warm and suffocating. I started building defenses to keep everyone at a polite, social distance.

I learned to hide the more obvious markers of my PTSD, like the sudden startles at loud noises or the occasional burst of frustrated tears at one more staircase. I learned quickly that anger was much more acceptable than tears. A man swearing or cursing at his lame leg in public was met with sympathy and understanding, but a man weeping helplessly on the footpath outside a supermarket would be scrupulously avoided and treated with not a little suspicion. It seemed backwards to me, but I duly complied with social pressure and worked hard to fit in. The nightmares and hours spent staring at the ceiling over my bed were easier to hide, and I soon discovered that caffeine created a slight tremor of the hands which was much easier to explain, as well as keeping me awake during the day. The constant headaches and grumbling abdominal pain only expressed themselves in increased irritability and an intolerance for loud noise.

The worst part was walking down the street, or into any crowded place. The humans weren't so bad, and fortunately they made up the majority of the population, but the occasional other Alpha – they would look at me with dismissive contempt, if they even noticed me. The Omegas were even worse, just the scent of them almost drove me mad even if they were bonded. It was like my Alpha instincts, which had been mostly fulfilled by my army role as team leader and doctor, were now turning entirely to mating. Now, when I had the least chance of ever finding an Omega to accept me. The Betas mostly just looked at me with pity. They were only thinking exactly what I was thinking: broken Alpha, no mate, no prospects, doomed to endless frustration and despair.

Meeting up with Harry had to happen eventually, and it was just as bad as I expected. She cried and tried to smother me with affection at first, and when I wouldn't allow that she got angry and started to tell me that it "wasn't all about me" and that she'd had her share of troubles too. When I left she gave me her old phone and told me to call if I needed anything, which we both knew I would never do.

My psychiatrist was unimpressed with my indolence. She gave me a stern warning that my troubles were mostly psychosomatic, that I should drink less and write in my blog more. The fact that she was completely right did not make me dislike her any less. However, the state of my finances was now so dire that I resolved to remove immediately from my current lodgings and find something cheaper. I was used to living with people around me having spent most of my formative years in dormitories or barracks, and the silent cloying atmosphere of the hotel was probably not improving my state of mind.

I was in my usual bar turning the problem over in my mind, once again without coming to any firm conclusions, when another old acquaintance appeared and offered to buy me a drink in return for being regaled with exciting stories of heroic deeds and valour on the field of battle. By now I knew how the game was played, and I restricted my comments about my own health to "I got shot" and declined to give further details. Stamford was fat and happy. He talked deprecatingly about his teaching career, but it was clear to me that he was content in his sinecure of a job as I could never be. I was born to be a man of action, one of those who do the work, not one of those who teach.

As the conversation drifted on I mentioned that I was looking to share accommodation with someone, if I could find a suitable "someone" who would be prepared to live with a reclusive ex-soldier with PTSD. He proposed that we go to the hospital laboratory to meet with a certain man with the outlandish name of "Sherlock Holmes". If he had money and could pay the rent, I had no concern with his name, profession or anything else about him. We would share living space but there was no need for anything further. I wondered uneasily if he would be human, but I reassured myself that the odds were in favour of it. If he were an Alpha, it would depend on whether he could accept having a broken submissive Alpha in his living space – I would hardly be a threat. A Beta probably wouldn't mind, and if he turned out to be an Omega when we met, well, I'd just make some excuse about the flat being too expensive.

At the laboratory I saw at once that Mr Holmes was younger than myself, and appeared a studious and incisive sort of man. To my relief he had no particular scent – he was human then. He looked at me calmly, sizing up my limp, and I found myself defensively trying to stand straighter. He seemed to be looking straight through all the walls I had constructed to keep people from seeing the cracks in my façade of "I'm fine". However, his gaze was clear of judgment or pressure and he soon returned to his microscope only asking me "Afghanistan or Iraq?" I hadn't realized that Stamford had told him about my military career, but I briefly confirmed that I had been in Afghanistan. His response was refreshingly uninterested. He did not follow up with any questions about the weather there, the fighting conditions or the projected withdrawal of British troops. He made no comment at all about the war and moved directly onto his own concerns. He told me that he played the violin, had sullen spells and did experiments in the flat. After establishing that these would not be problems for me he seemed completely satisfied, and for myself, I was delighted. He seemed so thoroughly anti-social it appeared that I would not need to keep up appearances with him at all. I would not need to find excuses and social politenesses for my own various frailties if he was not going to require small talk.

I couldn't resist asking him, however, if he didn't want to know anything about me, if we were going to live together. Then came the most astonishing part. He told me my own life story, and then left with a wink and a smirk and a simple, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

# # # # # # # # # #

We met the next day at Baker Street, and I could see immediately that Mrs Hudson was a Beta. She fussed around and felt sorry for me but in such a benign way that I could hardly resent it. Sherlock Holmes had apparently moved in already, judging by the amazing amount of junk already in the flat. I sat down in the one unoccupied chair and wondered if my days were going to be spent staring at boxes of equipment and what seemed to be a skull on the mantelpiece.

Just then Sherlock got a phone call. Instantly, the restrained ascetic disappeared in favour of a rush of excitement and energy. He leapt about, grabbed his scarf and headed out the door calling back for me not to wait up. Hardly likely. His burst of enthusiasm reminded me of myself when I was well, and there was work to be done and lives to be saved. The Work, which I would never be able to do again. I almost hated him in that moment, for being young and whole and having a Purpose. For being everything that I wanted to be, and had been, and was no longer.

Just then Mrs Hudson drifted back into the room and offered me a cup of tea. I accepted. Tea would do to start with, then after she was gone I would drown my troubles in something stronger. She made a reference to my bloody leg, and I felt all my anger, jealousy and impotent rage boiling up inside me. I took it out on my leg, as usual, yelling "Damn my leg!" Because really, it was a symbol for everything that was wrong with my life.

Mrs Hudson looked shocked, and I forced myself to apologize. She seemed to understand that it wasn't really about her, and withdrew hastily to leave me alone with my gloomy thoughts. Again. Always.

Then Sherlock Holmes reappeared in the doorway. He looked at me thoughtfully. "You're a doctor. Actually you're an army doctor. Any good?"

I bristled slightly at his implication, but strangely enough it appeared not to be a challenge as one Alpha might make to another, but a simple request for information. I restrained the impulse to get angry and give my whole military record, restricting myself to simply answering the question. I told him truthfully that I was, "Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths?" His tone was calm, enquiring. Strangely at odds with the subject matter.

I shrugged, "Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

I sighed. "Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much." I tried to tell myself that it was true. That I no longer wanted or missed the adrenaline rush of the battle field, that saving lives was something I could live without. That I could be happy as a family doctor working in the community treating coughs and colds. God, that I didn't want to just shoot myself on the spot.

Then Sherlock Holmes threw me a lifeline. In that calm, cold voice he offered me if not my life back, at least a chance to do something. "Want to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

Reviews are love - there will be at least two more chapters of this, maybe more if I like it. I haven't written Omegaverse before so this is a learning experience for all of us!